


Dot Day

by cal1brations



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos isn't good at paying attention, Dot Day, Fluff, M/M, and Cecil takes everything to heart, like at all, so much fluff holy frick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 17:11:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/cal1brations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I like finishing Dot Day with the things I love <i>most</i>,” Cecil explains; Carlos thinks he really likes how Cecil emphasizes the important words in his sentences.</p><p>In which it’s Dot Day and Carlos doesn’t get the memo about how the dot system <i>actually</i> works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dot Day

“Carlos, you’ve hardly put out any dots at all—that’s the _whole reason_ I have this afternoon off.”

Oh! Right, he almost forgot. It’s… Day of the Dots? Pokka-Spot Eve? Dawn of the Dots?

You know, you’d think a guy would be _used_ to this type of thing, after seeing people altered into shadows right before his very eyes, or the girl with gills who sometimes works the register at the pharmacy, or even from simply seeing Cecil himself—not that it’s a dig at him, don’t get Carlos wrong, but it’s a realistic comparison, what with the third eye and all.

Alas, such is not the case. No matter all of the weird, excluding all of the wacky, and ignoring all of the wondrous, there is still a plethora of things that Carlos, already having submitted to the workings of such a quirky town, still cannot fully comprehend. And, it’s not as Carlos, but him as The Scientist, it still bothers him on a molecular level—why do the flowers face the opposite direction the sun hangs in? Why do the lines on the road disappear at night? Why do—

Why Cecil is putting those little dots _all over his equipment_ is probably the better question to be asking at the current moment. He can brood and ponder when his lab _isn’t_ getting slathered in red stickers.

“What are we doing again?”

Cecil sticks a red dot on one of the larger beakers—at least it’s empty—with the pad of his thumb.  He’s very diligent about the task, turning the beaker a little to the left before letting it sit, and deciding that it looks appropriate.

“Dot Day,” he replies, enthusiasm peeking in his voice, like a smile that doesn’t reach the outside to curl his lips upwards. “I saved an _entire_ roll of dots for your _astonishing_ lab—see?”

It reminds Carlos of dot candy, except all of them are red, and probably not nearly as tasty. Cecil picks another red dot off the sheet, tapping a finger to his lips as he looks around for something else to mark. He turns a little to the right, ends up catching Carlos in his sights before anything that is devoid of a sticker (he’s done a pretty thorough job, actually—what are the dots for again?), and decides to press one right in the middle of his forehead. Cecil’s hand lingers, a smile _actually_ on his lips this time, and his thumb strokes down Carlos’s red face, an act of affection that makes Carlos, stupidly, begin thinking of elements and chemical bonding, for whatever reason that is.

“I like finishing Dot Day with the things I love _most_ ,” Cecil explains; Carlos thinks he really likes how Cecil emphasizes the important words in his sentences. Love. Most. You. Carlos also thinks he likes how even Cecil’s third, intriguing eye can bat its eyelashes at him—he wonders if Cecil can control how it blinks regularly. Or perhaps it merely blinks in-sync with its twins down below how eyebrows.

Damn it, he really needs to stop thinking so much, especially when he’s being spoken to. Especially when he’s being spoken to by _Cecil_. The woes of a scientist, truly.

“—my dear, _darling_ Carlos.” Apparently, he has missed a whole sentence from Cecil’s mouth. He blinks. Cecil blinks, one time more. Cecil looks a little flustered, but is not upset; he looks a little relieved, actually. Happy.

“Aren’t you going to mark anything?”

He would, if he knew what the dots were for in the first place. Carlos has a bad habit of listening to Cecil while working, and while he enjoys the rich, smooth tones of Cecil’s voice filling his otherwise-hollow lab, he is often working, so broadcasts don’t get his undying attention; he has a job to do. Therefore, there are many phone calls to Cecil to ask why everyone’s stockpiling food for Valentine’s Day, or how come no one mentions that Arby’s doesn’t have a back wall when one looks on the establishment from the outside?

However, Carlos _thinks_ he’s got the whole jist of this. Just slap the dots on stuff you like then, right? Or—important thought, serious thought!— ** _love_**.

Well, Cecil has taken care of marking the things in his lab. However, Cecil himself looks a little plain in comparison, standing in such a tiny amount of space here in Carlos’s science lair; a fish out of water. Carlos thinks Cecil might not actually know that the “instrument” he remarked as “an absolutely incredible piece of equipment” earlier was actually just a pen left next to his notes on some soil samples, but it counts that Cecil tries just that impossibly hard to be interested in Carlos’s constant state of science-thoughts.

Carlos mentally takes up the oath to quit with the science-thoughts during... _personal_ _time_ … with Cecil. (“Date” is a little too serious of a word for his tastes.) Then, he remembers what he _should_ be doing, besides mentally yelling about his too-thoughtful head and thinking about Cecil.

He takes out his sheet of dot stickers from the pocket of his lab coat, where he had folded it up and tucked it after it had been stuffed under his door, and the mailman whom delivered it went off to his next destination, screaming in Greek with loud, thunderous footsteps. Carlos dully notices that his sheet of dots is not red like Cecil’s, but instead, blue. Probably a citizenship thing? Maybe he’s just gone colorblind from all the radiation in the rock samples he’s been stuffing his face into as of late.

Either way, Cecil watches him with a quiet, thoughtful smile; who’s the one lost in thought _now_? Carlos picks off a dot, smiles back, and presses it right in the middle of Cecil’s eyes. Blushes a little (a _lot_ ) and kisses the single dot. Then he picks off another, and sticks this one on his cheek. Then another dot for his other cheek—has to be evened out. Both of which get a kiss, and a breathy swoon of, “Oh, _Carlos_.”

This goes on for a time, Carlos sticking dots on Cecil and Cecil chuckling and smiling shyly to himself while trying not to blubber about how absolutely _wonderful_ his darling, sweet Carlos is, slathering him in all of the dots he could possibly imagine or ever want on his body; if _one_ little red mark is enough to mean love—oh! His heart could literally explode. Except no, because that would be messy, and how would he ever thank his beautiful Carlos if his chest cavity had exploded all over his perfect, sun-tanned face?

Carlos takes one of Cecil’s hands (after properly slathering his face in dots), and places a dot right in the middle of an all-seeing mark on the top of his hand, his lips pressing there right afterwards and leaving markings at Cecil’s wrist squirming shyly on pale flesh. Cecil takes his hand back carefully, to get a better look at the red d—oh.

A blue dot.

 _Blue_.

 **Blue**.

Carlos sees Cecil’s hand go slack. Limp. Wilt. Along with the rest of him, his thin fame that withers in poisonous realization at the color pressed onto his skin.

“Cecil?” He asks carefully, reaching to at least put  hand on Cecil’s shoulder; he looks like he might pass out, or at the very least, topple over from how shrunken in he looks. Is he sick? Are these dots actually harmful and _hurting_ Cecil?

Not even his third eye dares a look at him, which is saying something, because even when Cecil promises not to peek when Carlos leans in for a surprise kiss every now and again, he almost _always_ uses the extra ocular as an advantage.

But Cecil only looks down at his shoes, letting his hand drop down to his side and hit his leg with a light smack. There is a smile on his face, but it is not happy—it kind of makes Carlos think of when Cecil is seeing something that Carlos himself cannot; a look that is empty and see-through and as delicate as glass.

“I better,” a pause, and Carlos knows something is wrong, because Cecil really doesn’t ever pause whilst talking to him, “I better head back to the station.”

“But we—“

“I’ll—I’ll talk to you later,” Cecil spews out in one frantic breath, turning heel before he makes his escape, swift and silent. “Goodbye, Carlos.”

Something is _definitely_ wrong. There was no second goodbye from him. Nor a kiss. Nor a hug. Nor even an affectionate cheek-holding, smile-sharing moment. Carlos thinks about the stickers in his coat pocket. He also thinks about throwing work aside to chase after Cecil.

He eventually comes to his senses and decided if something _is_ wrong, Cecil might talk about it on the radio (he’s heard his name come up a few times in passing, but never really listened to anything but Cecil’s town-wide warnings for certain days and the weather) later this evening.

Carlos deliberately puts away his equipment—leaving the little red dots on their proper items—and sits with the radio, listening to white noise and hollow moans while he waits for Cecil’s voice to fill his lab once again.

.-._.-._.-.

“”The Night Vale Community Fundraiser for the Night Vale Orphanage went _disastrously_ ,” Headmistress Wilderick explains, slowly ripping out sections of her frazzled, damaged hair while she recounts the events of last Wednesday. “Out of nowhere, the orphans broke out of their cages—it was a _bloodbath_!” She then tilted back her head and screamed violently up into the sky, before dropping to the ground and rolling away from inquiring sources. Remember, Night Vale: Orphans contain high volumes of a toxin yet to be named, and one bite can result in _dire consequences_. Make sure to keep your children on their chains at the park, or glue their hand to yours before you head out for your daily errands—it will make it _much_ easier for the Secret Police to distinguish your children from the rabid orphans.

“In other news, today was another,” there’s a pause, and Carlos almost thinks Cecil’s left the entire town to listen to dead air, “ _successful_ … Dot Day, for our little town.” He sounds upset, and Carlos can hear the deep sigh Cecil gives in order to settle his voice, so he can continue the report.

However, he does _not_ continue the report.

“I’m sorry, listeners it’s just—“another one of those long pauses, but there’s more of that ragged breathing in the background, and it’s like Carlos doesn’t even need to see Cecil to know he’s pressing his thumbs into his eyes, to keep the tears inside.

“It’s just that—okay, I will try and keep this quick, listeners.” A self-settling sigh. “I had gone over to my wonderful Carlos’s lab, for when I had begun my dot placing this morning, I realized that I had not yet demonstrated my affections for Carlos’s daring, and morosely _interesting_ work—you all know how much I,” a little whimper, “ _love_ and _cherish_ science.

“So, there I was, right? Placing an _entire roll_ worth of precious, meaningful red dots, all over his _beautiful_ and _astonishing_ lab—of which, is completely relevant to my interests. I placed my love all over his beakers and… do-hickeys, before I realized that I had not yet placed my love somewhere important—and that was probably why he—“ more whimpers, and the sound of Cecil breathing deeply into his hand before trying several times to continue, only to pause again.

“It was heat of the moment, I know, but I simply _could not_ resist. So, I carefully took one of my last issued dots for today, and I pressed it right onto his forehead. And then—“

Now there’s an _actual_ little cry, followed by some struggled breaths and the sound of Cecil rubbing his hand over his mouth, struggling to speak; Carlos feels guilty for a whole plethora of reasons, but the most prominent at this moment is having made Cecil too upset to speak **_even on-air_**. That’s a new, horrifying symptom of Cecil’s woe.

“Then, listeners, he—he _covered_ me in, in _blue dots_.” His voice cracks on the last word, and Carlos believes he can hear nearly everyone in Night Vale outside his lab sucking in a horrified gasp of air. He feels awful, he feels like he should probably drink that beaker of highly-toxic groundwater he’s got sealed away for tomorrow’s studies—

But no.

No, instead, he grabs his keys, sprints outside to his growling car, uses the keys to gain the grumpy car’s attention, and slips inside to start it once it loosens up its door for him to open, howling and speeding off.

.-._.-._.-.

Cecil is worried Station Management might be skulking around again. There’s noise and shuffling outside the recording booth, and the sound of one of the interns screeching and backing against the wall. He assumes it _probably_ has something to do with his personal blubbering on-air, but he’s not calm enough to be worried about Management possibly sucking out his soul through his three eyes—he has other things to be focused on.

Things such as not sobbing openly, on air, to the _entire town_ whilst giving the traffic report.

However, the door is open and the door is shut, and there’s definitely someone standing at the door, but it’s behind him, so he doesn’t bother to look. Third-eye sights tell him it’s—

Oh _no_.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Cecil starts slowly, cautiously, as he begins to swivel around in his chair, “it seems that… we have a _guest_ here in the station.”

Carlos cringes at how wounded the word “guest” comes from Cecil’s lips. He looks _miserable_. His hair is matted and frazzled. The markings on his neck move rapidly, curling and whipping in the rip current of Cecil’s hurt.

Carlos, however, holds up a sheet in offering. The sheet of red dots, that had been subsequently stuffed under the ridge of the doorway when the mailman came shoving the delivery under the door and screaming Greek during his departure. The dots he did not think he was _supposed_ to receive.

“It’s still Dot Day, right?” Carlos whispers—he might as well speak up, because he’s probably _already_ gotten Cecil in trouble with this whole stunt. He’d have waited until later, but… well, Carlos has a thing with getting confrontation done and over with (when it’s not creepy men standing at his door with briefcases.)

“Listeners, it looks like I’m going to have to leave you with: _The Weather_.”

There’s a couple buttons pressed before Cecil gives Carlos his full attention, sliding his headphones down around his neck. He doesn’t look angry, like Carlos had expected, but much more like he’s about to cry again, and if it was gut-wrenching to listen to, Carlos doesn’t think he’ll be able to watch Cecil cry about his stupidity.

Instead, Carlos steps over, peeling off a dot on his way to Cecil before holding up his finger, dot locked and loaded, and carefully cups Cecil’s cheek, staring at unblinking eyes.

“They got stuck under the door,” Carlos whispers, pressing the dot—the correct dot—to Cecil’s nose, before kissing it. This time, he does not move his lips, only keeps his mouth pressed there as he waits for an answer; a sob, a punch to the gut, **anything** but silence.

“This is just like Valentine’s Day, isn’t it,” Cecil finally laughs out, though a few tears still drip down his cheeks. At least he’s smiling now, for real.

“Where I got you flowers and you nearly broke my arm trying to throw them into the street?

“You really should _listen_ to the PSA’s, Cecil says, running his fingers into perfectly-groomed, silky, dark locks, fingers playing delicately with the edge of an ear. “My sweet, _adorable_ Carlos.”

Carlos leans in to kiss him, and Cecil immediately opens his mouth against Carlos’s, serpentine tongue eagerly tasting and smoothing over dull teeth. There’s probably a moan or two, that rumbles in Cecil’s chest in Carlos’s chest in Cecil’s, but no one’s really keeping track.

They break, with a bridge of saliva between their lips ( Cecil’s spit is a lavender color, apparently, when Carlos wipes a smidge off from his chin; Cecil’s lips look a little purple-slicked too, now that he’s paying attention) before The Weather ends and leaves the town listening to the Unknowns of dead airtime. However, Carlos does not leave, and instead, finds himself bustling around Cecil while he gives the remainder of news and wraps up, pressing hundreds of little red dots all over him.

“Listeners,” Cecil whispers, with a wide smile as he cups the microphone, “I don’t want to go into too much detail, _buuut_ … my wonderful, _perfect_ Carlos is covering me in red, I repeat, **red** dots—oh! He’s just put one on my ear!

“And,” Cecil gives a content little sigh, “with that wonderful relief of news, I do wish you all a goodnight.

Goodnight, Night Vale. _Goodnight._ ”


End file.
